


some things you just can't speak about

by autumncolour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, One Night Stands, Other, POV Third Person, Pegging, Porn with Feelings, canon compliant incest subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumncolour/pseuds/autumncolour
Summary: She’s as tall as him, broad-shouldered and muscular, her body practically screamingprofessional athlete.Dean is abruptly glad Sam decided to stay at the motel. Sam wouldn’t say anything crass like,dude, your lady looks like a dude, but there would be a raised eyebrow, he’s sure of it, and later an innocent observation:You know, she looked kinda like me. You sure you don’t have any issues we need to discuss?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 40





	some things you just can't speak about

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine this happening somewhere around second season, but it can be set pretty much anywhen.

She’s as tall as him, broad-shouldered and muscular, her body practically screaming _professional athlete_.

“Swimming,” she tells him, then smiles, amused. “A lot of chicks quit when their shoulders get too wide. It’s like they’re afraid they’ll stop getting laid.”

“I’m guessing you don’t have that problem,” Dean says. He looks her up and down, makes it clear he likes what he sees.

She laughs, cards her fingers through her honey-blond hair. It reaches just below her ears and curls there, sticking out, messy and cute. She leans against the bar the way guys do it, all unselfconscious elegance, unapologetically taking space. She’s not his usual type—far from it—but there’s something in her he finds irresistible.

Dean is abruptly glad Sam decided to stay at the motel. Sam wouldn’t say anything crass like, _dude, your lady looks like a dude_ , but there would be a raised eyebrow, he’s sure of it, and later an innocent observation: _You know, she looked kinda like me. You sure you don’t have any issues we need to discuss_?

Her name is Samantha.

Of course it is.

Dean buys her a drink.

“Sure. I’ll take you home,” she says after the second round. “But I should warn you, I’m an unusual fuck. It might not be up your alley.”

“What level of _unusual_ are we talking about? Pink handcuffs or bug squashing? Because, I gotta be honest, if it’s the latter I’d rather spend the night with Mr. Righty here.”

Samantha laughs. “Pegging,” she says and then leans into his personal space, whispers in his ear, “I like to do the fucking.”

She smells of soap and clean sweat, a hint of what could be men’s deodorant. A thrill of arousal shivers down his spine.

“Well,” he says. “I’ve always said everything’s worth trying at least once.”

Her apartment is small and tidy. No pink frills but not a man cave, either, and that’s a relief. She offers him a drink— _looks like you might need it_ —and kisses him in the tiny kitchen, up against the counter, fingers digging into his skin. It’s as unapologetic and open as everything else about her. It makes his head spin. Then she gives him a towel and tells him to get cleaned up, and it’s in her immaculate bathroom Dean almost loses his nerve. Only the thought that Sam would never let him live it down if he found out that Dean has run away from a sure fuck gets him out of the bathroom through the door instead of the window.

In a strange bit of reverse psychology confidence bluff Dean leaves his clothes there, piled on top of the toilet seat. The towel she’s given him barely reaches around his hips, and weirdly that’s what makes him feel good about himself. Ready for anything.

Samantha looks him up and down, appreciative.

“Let me show you my cocks,” she says and leads the way into her bedroom.

She has quite a collection. Different colors and shapes and sizes, some realistic with wrinkly balls, some sleek and smooth minimalist sculptures with only a passing resemblance to an actual penis.

Dean’s not sure if he’s meant to compliment them. “D’you have a favorite?” he asks instead, weighing a pink monstrosity in his hand.

“I do, in fact.”

Samantha picks up a sleek purple thing. It’s maybe a little smaller than your average dong, its narrow shaft curving up slightly. No nutsack, but instead there’s a bulbous part that goes up from the base at a sharp angle. “Insertable at both ends,” she says. “I still like to wear a harness with it, but in theory I could just plop it in and go to pound town.”

Dean’s left holding her cock-of-the-evening while Samantha strips. She doesn’t tease, doesn’t try to put on a show, just takes off her clothes like she’s going for a swim. Her hips are narrow and her shoulders wide, and if it weren’t for her small breasts and the distinct lack of a penis, Dean could be looking at his brother, minus a few years.

It’s an uneasy thought. She’s hot. Really hot.

Especially when she takes the dildo from him, lubes it up and slips it in, the business end of it jutting up proudly from between her thighs.

The harness she straps on to keep the dildo in place is black leather and digs slightly into the meat of her hips. Abruptly Dean wants to put his mouth there, wants to feel the change in texture and taste from one kind of skin to another, animal to human.

He drops on his knees in front of her. He spreads his hands on her hips and presses his face into the valley between her stomach and thigh, mouthing at the leather, following the edge of it with his tongue. The dildo rubs against his cheek and Samantha humms, her long fingers coming up to cradle his jaw.

“Gonna suck my dick, cowboy?”

“Yeah,” Dean says.

He turns his head and lets the dildo press against his lips. Then what he’s doing catches up with him, and for a few agonizing seconds he feels supremely awkward. But Samantha is rubbing his chin in an encouraging way and making small, appreciative sounds—and Dean thinks, _what the hell_ , and gets out of his own way. He’s no expert at giving blowjobs, but here it doesn’t seem to matter, because here it’s all about the play-pretend, and Dean’s been practicing that since he was old enough to say, _yes, ma’am, me and my brother, we’re on a holiday with our dad_.

He drags his lips over the shaft and tongues the head, and Samantha moans. She combs her fingers through his hair, and Dean lets her hold his head and fuck his mouth in slow, shallow thrusts. He looks up at her, at the smooth planes of her stomach, at her strong arms and the strands of hair falling across her face, and his breath catches in his throat.

God help him. In the half-light of the bedside lamp she looks _just_ like Sam.

It should make him sick. Instead, his half-hard cock twitches at the split-second thought that he’s blowing his brother. There is something seriously wrong with him.

“You okay there, cowboy?” Samantha pulls back, rubs the head of the dildo on his cheek. She smiles when he nods. “You gonna let me fuck you?”

_Fuck_. Dean nods. He really is. White-hot desire claws through his guts. He’s really gonna let her.

“I wanna hear you say it, sweetheart.”

He may want it, but that doesn’t make the words any easier to get out. Dean swipes his tongue down the underside of her cock and whispers them against its base, where it disappears into her cunt. “Want you to fuck me.” Then he decides he might as well throw away the rest of his dignity, and adds, “Please.”

Samantha bites her lip. “Get on the bed, then.”

He does, climbs up and lies face down on her soft high thread count sheets, his heart hammering in his chest like he’s just run a mile.

“Oh dude, no,” Samantha says as the bed dips under her added weight. “No no no. On your back. I wanna see you.”

Dean obeys. It’s like with Rhonda and her pink panties: there’s a part of him that gets off on the vulnerability and humiliation of being put on display like that. Samantha gives his cock a few friendly strokes and tells him to hold his thighs up, and just like that there’s the snap of a bottle cap, and the shock of cold slippery fingers against his ass.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath.

Samantha leans up to lick a dirty kiss against his open mouth.

“Relax, baby,” she says. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” Her finger slips in, and Dean moans. “That’s it. You’ve played with your ass before, right?”

Dean nods. Yeah, he’s fooled around a couple of times, but it’s a whole different beast when it’s someone else’s finger in you. He keeps his eyes shut and tries not to hyperventilate. The finger retreats. There’s the snap of a bottle cap again, followed by more cold slickness. Then two fingers push in and just keep sliding deeper, and how long _are_ her fingers? _Jesus_. The pads of them bump against his prostate and a tremor runs through his whole body. “Fuck,” Dean breathes, and when Samantha does it again, “Oh shit, that’s—“

“You like it?” She sounds pleased.

“Fuck. Yeah.”

“Gonna add a third finger. You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Dean risks opening his eyes and looking down. He can see the head of Samantha’s purple dick peeking out from where she kneels between his spread thighs. His own cock leans on his stomach, flushed heavy and leaking. Samantha’s arm flexes as she slowly fucks three fingers into him. She’s biting her lip, totally absorbed in what she’s doing. Then she looks up, and the raw lust in her expression is almost too much.

“You’re so pretty when you blush,” she tells him, and _fuck_ if that isn’t humiliating and exactly the right thing to say.

“C’mon.” He’s this close to begging. “Samantha—“

“You can call me Sam,” she says, and Dean’s cock jumps and his breath hitches, and Samantha—Sam, _fuck_ —looks delighted. “Oh my. Is it the boy name that does it for you?”

Dean shakes his head. _No_ , he wants to say—to everything. _No, it’s not the boy name_ , and _no, I can’t call you Sam_. But then he’d have to continue, _because it’s my brother’s name_ , and then if that’s the issue, then why the hell is his cock suddenly so excited. He feels like a dumb deer caught in the headlights, and Sam _antha_ laughs, not unkindly.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “You’re not the first guy to be into that. And it _is_ right up _my_ alley, so.”

She withdraws her fingers. It leaves him aching and twitchy and _needy_ in a way Dean has never thought possible.

“I wanna fuck you now, pretty boy. You want that, too?”

Dean swallows. “Yeah.”

“Wanna hear you beg for my cock.”

Dean groans, and thuds his head back against the pillows, and just entirely gives up. “Please,” he says. “ _Sam_. Can you please just _fucking_ fuck me already?”

She laughs, low and breathless. “Well,” she says. “When you ask so nicely.”

Then the slick, blunt head of her cock is pushing into him, and it’s weird and good and too much and not enough all rolled into one. His thighs tremble and threaten to slip from his grip, suddenly slick with sweat, and Dean grips them hard enough that there might be bruises tomorrow. Samantha leans over him, her skin glowing with a sheen of sweat. The muscles on her shoulders bunch and ripple as she shifts her weight. She’s letting out these small panting moans, and as if in a dream Dean remembers noting a strip of ridges along the shaft of her cock, near the base, where she can rub her clit against them. The thought nearly sets him off, completely hands-free.

“No,” Samantha breathes. “Hold on. Don’t come yet.”

She stops thrusting and grabs the base of his cock in a firm grip. Only once Dean has got his breathing back under control does she let off the pressure and start moving again. Slowly at first, and then faster, in quick shallow stabs. She’s hitting his prostate with nearly every thrust, and he’s so close he can taste the approaching orgasm at the back of his throat.

“Show me how long you can last,” Samantha says. She strokes him, a light teasing touch along his shaft. “Think of unsexy thoughts. Like dirty socks.”

He tries, he honestly tries. He pictures himself rummaging through his bag, finding a crusty ball of socks and lobbing it at Sam, _keep your nasty socks off my bag_ —but then his treacherous brain presents him with a picture of Sam standing barefoot at the bathroom door, dodging the sock ball with fluid grace. His skin is flushed from the shower and he only has a tiny towel around his middle—

_Fuck_ , Dean thinks as the first wave of a black-out orgasm rolls over him. _I’m so fucked._

Samantha rides him through it. When she’s wrung every last bit of come out of him, she pulls out and unbuckles her harness just enough to get her hands on herself.

“Oh shit,” she whispers, fingers rubbing frantically, and then she’s coming, bowing her head and swearing under her breath, her strong thighs trembling. She looks down at him, still laying there, legs now wantonly spread and cum cooling on his stomach, and she tosses her hair back and smiles, flushed and satisfied. She unbuckles the harness and pulls out her cock, and then rubs herself off a second time, biting her lip and watching him through half-lidded eyes.

Fuck. She still looks so much like—

Dean thinks he might fall for her, given the chance.

“You wanna stay the night?” she asks when she’s collapsed down next to him. “We could have another round.”

The thought is equal amounts tempting and terrifying.

“Thanks for the offer,” Dean says, “But I’ve got a—“ _Brother waiting for me._ “A motel room. Would be a shame to waste it.”

Samantha looks a little disappointed, but she hides it behind a stretch and a yawn. “Your loss.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

At the door Samantha gives him one last lingering kiss. “Bye then, pretty boy,” she says. “Call me if you’re ever ‘round these parts—I took the liberty of putting my number in your phone while you washed.” She pats his cheek, then gently shoves his shoulder, a friendly _get going_. “And say hi to the other Sam from me.”

All the way to the car, Dean can feel a prickling shame burning at the back of his neck, like someone’s holding a hot iron to his skin. As soon as he’s safely inside, he takes out his phone and deletes her number. Then he just sits there for a moment, quietly gripping the wheel and freaking out.

If never seeing ‘the other Sam’—the _brother_ Sam, holy _fuck_ —ever again were an option, Dean might consider pointing the Impala at the nearest exit out of town and driving until he hit the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeated and posted hastily in the middle of the night, because I just wanted to be done with this. I can't believe I wrote hetero porn.


End file.
